Church of the Incarnation

"Who do you say that I am," Jesus asks his disciples. The answer seems so obvious to us - after all, we've read the book. But it wasn't so obvious to Jesus' disciples, believe it or not. Jesus never sits them down and says, "OK, here's the deal. This is who I am." He's never told them that he's God. He's shown them, but has that been enough?

So Jesus looks at them and asks, "You've heard all the rumors about who I might be: John the Baptist, Elijah, or another great prophet. But when you hear those things, what do you say? Who do YOU say that I am?"

And Peter has one of his rare flashes of brilliance. He says, "You are the Messiah," in Greek the Christos, the Christ. This name meant "anointed one," the one chosen and equipped by God to become king, a great king like David, and to lead the people back to faith. Peter gets it right! He recognizes that Jesus isn't just another great prophet sent to care for the people until the Messiah comes, but that he IS the Messiah, the one they've been awaiting.

But what did Peter mean by "You are the Christ?" If his picture was like that of most Jews in his day, he was expecting the Christ to be a political powerhouse, one who would rule justly but quite firmly, one who would not tolerate opposition to God, but who would bring down the full force of his military might on any who threatened God's people. He expected the splendor of Solomon, who made the temple at Jerusalem a suitable vessel for God's presence. And he expected the military acumen of David, who kept the peace by skillfully squashing all invaders. Peter expected the Christ to be a larger-than-life figure, one to whom all Jews could look and know they were safe. His lavish garments would show the prosperity of God's people, and his powerful steed would show the might of God's kingdom. As long as the Christ lived, no one would be able to harm God's people.

Peter says, "You are the Christ." And Jesus begins to teach them that the Christ must suffer shame and rejection and torture, must be shunned by the religious elite, must be killed brutally and publicly, and then must rise again after three days.

Peter must be thinking, "Huh?! Have you studied the same Torah that I have? Don't you know anything about the Christ? What you're describing isn't even possible for the dominating and adored Messiah. I've got this all figured out, and clearly you need me to explain it to you."

Like Peter, I like having things all figured out. I like having things defined and organized. When my storage unit was robbed this summer, the thieves took some of the evidence of this. I had these two boxes - you know, the kind with lots of tiny drawers in them. Every drawer was full of hardware and carefully labeled. I had "one inch screws," "half-inch screws," "tiny screws," and so on. I had cup hooks and eye hooks, chain and wire, tefflon tape and the things you screw over the ends of electrical wires. No matter what the project, I had the hardware, and it was already sorted and labeled and kept in a drawer.

If I had my way, all of life would be that way. But it isn't, is it? We get cancer, and no matter how many books we read on the subject and how well we understand the science of the disease, we still don't know from one day to the next if we'll be strong enough to leave the house. Jesus doesn't fit tidily into little drawers, and whatever label we try to put on him can't begin to hold all that he is and does. Jesus colors outside the lines. But it's at the point that the color spills over the boundary that transformation becomes possible.

I have a friend who's a hospice nurse, and it's not unusual for her to be called in the middle of the night and to have to rush to a home to be there through a client's final moments. On the one hand, her job is clear. She's to make the patient comfortable in whatever ways she can medically. And she's to notify proper authorities once the patient has died. But she told me that on the way to homes she spends the drive praying to God, "Please use me in this home. Make me open to whatever you need me to do. Help me see the needs, and then equip me to respond to them." Despite the clear label of her job title, "hospice nurse," she seeks to be open to all the ways God might use her. I've watched her sit patiently with a developmentally disabled little girl so the rest of the family can spend a last few moments saying their good-byes to grandma. She refuses to be kept in the little drawer labeled "hospice nurse," and so God is able to accomplish remarkable things through her.

The Quakers believe that this posture of openness to wherever God might lead should be reflected in their worship of God. So their services have no set form. In fact, there is no one in charge of their services. They agree to meet at a certain time. They gather, and they all sit in silence. And they wait. And they listen. They try to have no expectations of what God might say or do; they try to be completely open to any possibilities. And if God gives someone something to say, that person will share it with the rest of the group. At some point, it becomes clear that they're finished and they all leave.

Now I can guess some of what you're thinking: what a nightmare! How can I plan the rest of the day if I don't have any idea how long church is going to last? And we'll just let anyone speak who thinks they have a message from God? But what if they use poor grammar or don't enunciate clearly? Shouldn't they first be trained at the Diocesan level?

Well never fear, we're not about to have a Quaker Prayer Meeting here today. But it does raise the question for me: is there space enough in our liturgy for listening to God, for being open to the possibilities of all God might want to say to us? You may have noticed that there are two places in the service where I tend to observe a moment of quiet listening. One is right after the sermon, to allow God time to correct or add to what I've said to you. The other is before the confession, to allow God to bring to our minds things we ought to confess.

But of course these aren't nearly enough. We need to create our own times of silent listening, times when Jesus can remind us that we don't have him all figured out, times when he can show us that he won't fit into the tiny drawer we've labeled "The Christ," times when he can show us all the possibilities of who he is and of who we can be. Because it's only when we open up the drawer and rip off the label, letting Jesus spill out wherever he will, that we open ourselves to being transformed into his body here on earth.

Amen.